The fridge door exhales as I pull it open— a gust like winter breath.

Steel trays clatter in the dark. The air tastes of bleach and pennies.

“You kept me waiting,” I say. My voice rattles against the tiles.

A hush.

‎

“Don’t you always wait,” I grin. “Yes, that’s right. I’m patient, it’s worth it.”

‎
‎
I wheel her out, the wheels shrieking across the cold floor. The sheet slides down, brushing gently against my wrist. Her skin almost translucent like candle wax; faint with a violet pool. Damp hair clings to her temples, she smells faintly of rain and something sweeter—fermenting fruit perhaps.

‎

A tag swings below: Jane Doe.

“No one is ever born a nobody”

‎

The fluorescent lights flicker above me. The room’s shadows shift like an animal stretching.

“Scalpel,” I command.

A breath at my ear: “Here.”

‎
‎
I close my fingers around the handle I don’t remember picking up. My laugh sounds so sharp, too sharp. “Good girl.”
‎
‎

The first cut sighs open. Formaldehyde and old copper seep up, coating my tongue. My hand begins to tremble, but the blade stays true.

‎
‎
“Can you feel that?” I ask.

“You feel it,” she replies—voice everywhere, nowhere.

I tilt my head, swallowing the metallic air around me. “I feel everything. The city scrapes me raw. But you—” I press two gloved fingers to the incision, a slick warmth I simply can’t explain.

“You’re quiet meat. Blessed meat.”

‎
‎

“You came back,” she whispers to me.

“Always. Who else is going to stay past the clock?”

‎
‎

A leaky faucet keeps time: drip … drip … each drop a heartbeat for the room.

“You hide,” she says.

“No, I work,” I snap. Softer: “I worship.”

‎
‎

Her laugh is a moth’s wing against my cheek.

“You’re alone.”

I bare my teeth. “Alone is holy.”

‎
‎
A low hum begins in the vents, or maybe just inside my skull. Shadows fracturing, black on black lacing the walls.

“Please, touch me,” she asks.

I drag my gloves across her ribs—each bone a cold prayer of mine being answered. “You speak like hunger.”

“So do you.”

‎
‎
I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste rust. “Name yourself.”

“You name me.”

“Adephagia,” I decide, the sound thick on my tongue.

“Adephagia,” she echoes, doubling, tripling, until the walls around me vibrate.
‎
‎

Her hair glistens as if freshly washed, though I haven’t touched water. I lean in closer, nose to throat. Bleach. Orchard sweetness. Damp earth after rain.

“You’d have been beautiful alive,” I murmer.

“I am alive.”
‎
‎

My pulse stutters. The room sways, twisting, breathing— the weight of the walls feel as if they’re falling in.

“No,” I start. “No, you’re—”

“—exactly as you want me,” she interrupts.

‎
‎

I press my forehead to hers. Her skin is ice, it burns. “Stay with me.”

“I never leave.”

‎
‎

The gurney creaks—slow, unsettling.

“You’ll rot,” I warn.

“So will you.”

A laugh burst out of me—raw, “Then we’ll rot together.”

‎
‎

The overhead light pops and dims to a jaundiced glow. My reflection now on the steel tray staring back at me: eyes black-rimmed, mouth slick, a smile that is not mine.

“You see me?” I ask.

“I am you,” Adephagia says.

‎
‎

I don’t know if those words came from her lips, the vent, or the marrow of my own skull.

‎

Something warm slides down my wrist. The drip from the faucet begins to sync with my heartbeat—faster now. I pull a chair beside the table, sit until the cold leaches into my bones. My cheek against her shoulder, listening for the faintest of breath. None comes… they never do. Or— maybe one does.

Outside, the dawn begins to leak through the window, highlighting her body is every hollow contour, every rigid line, so unforgiving, so exact. Glowing—alive?

“Goodnight,” I breathe.

Soft, almost tender— inside my head, from her blue lips … I dare not watch.

“Goodnight.”